


Disarrayed

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A battle-dirtied Elrond simply isn’t something Lindir can resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarrayed

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Lindir finds Elrond irresistable when he's all dishevelled and filthy from fighting and Elrond is all to happy to oblige :P (Basically just a shameless request for filthy and rough elrondir smut because these two are so hot!) +Infinity love if Elrond keeps his hard, dirty armour on while Lindir is stripped naked” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26119426#t26119426).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Elrond is always stunning, always beautiful, and he often takes Lindir’s breath away. But mostly he’s pristine, calm and collected, with every hair dutifully brushed in place by Lindir’s own hand and crisp robes clinging to his handsome frame. 

When he arrives now, he’s _filthy_ , or as much so as an Elven lord can be—still far grander than the guards that bracket him. His purple armour fits him like a glove, wrapped so perfectly about his form, but it’s stained here and there with patches of dark Orc blood. His long hair is a mess in the wind, scattered about his shoulders with the occasional knot and a few loose strands caught in the silver circlet glittering around his forehead. His cape is torn at the ends, his riding gloves muddied and his trousers and boots likewise, and his chiseled face is flecked with blood and dirt but, to Lindir’s quick relief, no wounds. Even his posture is loose, his body arching back in a sensuous curve, so that his crotch is thrust forward as it rides his cantering horse. When he stops on the circular dais, right before Lindir, Lindir has to close his eyes and concentrate solely on not tenting his robes too obviously. 

As soon as Elrond dismounts, another elf is there to take his horse—Lindir has delegated that task away so that he may walk solely with his lord. Elrond walks past him with a nod of greeting, and Lindir falls swiftly into step, having to will his shaking knees to work. Elrond’s gate is strong, swift—not the usual slow, elegant sweep of long robes. The mere clack of Elrond’s boots makes Lindir lick his lips and bite the bottom one to be _quiet_. His lord is all consuming. 

Halfway to his quarters, Elrond begins a brisk recount of the events: “Our hunt was successful. We caught a pack of fifteen orcs lingering on our western borders and slew the leader instantly, though a pursuit was required to round up the rest. I take no joy in this act, as you well know, but we may all rest easier to know that the border lands are, for now, as safe as they may be.”

Lindir nods his head and wishes, not for the first time, that he could’ve been there. He has even less desire for killing than Elrond, and he’s hopeless with a weapon, preferring scrolls and music, but he would still like to attend just to _see_ such a warrior in action. Elrond is usually so restrained, and the thought of him wielding a sword with impeccable skill is both exotic and arousing. Lindir somehow manages to murmur coherently, “Thank you for your continued vigilance and protection, my lord.”

“And you, for keeping my house in my stead,” Elrond answers easily: fluid of mind, and body, and tongue to the last. He’s everything Lindir could’ve ever hoped for. 

The moment they’re inside Elrond’s quarters, Lindir closes the door. Elrond steps into the room, one set of fingers coming to the other, perhaps to tug free his gloves. Lindir makes a keening noise to still Elrond’s hand, and then he rushes quickly around to lunge at his lord. He shamelessly latches up onto Elrond’s shoulders, broadened by the armour, and threads his fingers firmly into Elrond’s disheveled hair, his body flattening against Elrond’s chest and his feet on their toes to reach. He smashes their mouths together desperately, squealing in delight when he’s kissed back. An arm loops around his trim waist, a warm tongue slips into his mouth, and a leather glove encircles the back of his neck, holding him lightly in place. He kisses Elrond with fervor, and when he does stop, it’s only because he’s made himself breathless. 

He still mumbles, “I beg forgiveness,” hoarse and nearly moaning. Up close like this, he can smell the dirt and the thick stench of blood amidst the musk of Elrond’s sweat. He’s already dizzy from it, but still explains, “It is just that I find you so _irresistible_ like this, and I seem unable to restrain myself.”

Elrond smiles, kind and fond, dazzling as always. Lindir’s cheeks are flushed but only partially from embarrassment, mostly from arousal. Elrond draws his hand around to stroke Lindir’s face with one curled finger, answering so gently, “There is nothing to forgive. I am glad such a beautiful, young thing such as yourself can still find interest in an old and weary soldier.”

“You are my _everything_ ,” Lindir sighs, unable to find the words to counter properly. He never thinks of Elrond as old, not in any disparaging way as Elrond sometimes teases, and he still finds his lord vibrant and wondrous. He leans in for another kiss, and around a slew of them, begs, “Please, my lord. Allow me to service you now.”

“Now? I am thoroughly dirtied and still in my armour,” Elrond laughs. Lindir mewls, bucking his hips against Elrond’s, to show that he doesn’t mind. He’s still asked, “Can you not wait?”

“I will if I must,” Lindir groans, with his eyebrows knit together to show that he doesn’t want to, but he’ll obey any order his lord gives him. He dares to cup Elrond’s cheek and kiss his way along the other, tasting Elrond’s skin through the surface of grime. It’s debauched and unworthy of an elf, marring his mouth beyond what his lord should have to kiss, but it shows his devotion, and Elrond’s arm tightens around Lindir’s waist. 

Even when Elrond sighs, “Very well,” Lindir continues his kisses, nuzzling into Elrond’s soft flesh and washing him clean. Elrond withdraws his grip to Lindir’s shoulders, brushing back his cape. Lindir squirms out of it, allowing it to drop, but his tongue doesn’t leave Elrond’s jaw. He nips there and runs his hands along the ribbons of armour across Elrond’s chest, normally smooth but coarsened with the grit. Elrond works at the line of buttons up Lindir’s middle, one spread loose after the other. When the last button’s freed, Lindir steps back. 

He’s spent many nights performing for his lord, slow and sensual, trying his best to please. He’s robbed of that ability with Elrond this disheveled. Lindir’s movements are hurried, nearly clumsy. He strips himself as quickly as he can and steps free of the fabric, wearing nothing but the circlet around his head—a gift from his beloved lord that he rarely removes. With only bits of his hair to cover him, the bulk falling straight down his back, he sinks down to his knees. The polished floor is cool beneath him, but he doesn’t mind—it only adds to the imbalance of _power_ , him vulnerable and small at his master’s feet, while Lord Elrond stands high above, dressed like a king. Sometimes, Lindir likes to imagine himself a spoil of war: something that Elrond has won and desired enough to cart home. He’s a grateful captive set free by his lord’s light, and he showers his master in his appreciation. 

With his hands between his knees and his hard cock arching off the floor, Lindir bends forward, his face pressing into Elrond’s crotch. The scent of it is nearly overpowering, and it gives Lindir a heady ecstasy, his nose digging closer. He can feel the stiff outline of Elrond’s shaft. He nuzzles into it, lips parting, and mouths at it through the heavy fabric, wanting desperately to be _full_ of Elrond in whatever manner he can be. His hands lift to balance delicately on Elrond’s knees, and he goes as long as he can, until Elrond releases a subtle groan, and Lindir needs _more_.

He kisses higher, catching the lower of Elrond’s belts, his sword still weighed down at his hip—it’s Lindir’s job to take care of it. Lindir flattens his tongue against the armour beneath and drags it higher, licking his way up, over each overlapping seam of metal, no matter the muck he catches in between. By the time he’s reached the folds of Elrond’s collar, pressing in to suck at Elrond’s adam’s apple, Elrond is breathing nearly as hard as him. 

He’s grabbed suddenly by his arms and spun, turned on the spot. Two steps, and he’s backed into the wall, pushed firmly against it but never harshly; even in the throes of passion, Elrond treats him so _well_. Elrond guides Lindir’s arms to his shoulders. Lindir holds on, and Elrond ducks to dip beneath Lindir’s knees and hike them both up, Lindir jumping to lock tightly around Elrond’s waist. He’s pinned skillfully to the wall, held in place like he weighs nothing, and he dives into Elrond’s mouth again while Elrond parts his robes enough to unlace his trousers. 

Lindir is ready, always is. He shamefully lingers between shifts in his lord’s quarters, tucked beneath Elrond’s sheets to finger himself open, keep himself slick with oil, any time he thinks he has any chance of being taken. Sometimes he enjoys Elrond preparing him, stretching and wetting him, but Lindir doesn’t always have the patience. He knew today that this would drive him mad. The first time he saw Elrond arrive home from the mess of a raid, Lindir had rushed from the gates to hide behind a pillar and spill himself in his robes. He’s helpless for his Lord Elrond. 

He breathes between kisses, “I am ready,” and, “I want you,” and little, fluttering, gasps of, “ _my lord_.” The title comes and goes with Lindir’s senses. 

Elrond purrs back, “My Lindir,” and presses his tip to Lindir’s hole. Lindir’s shaft is nestled between his stomach and Elrond’s armour, his balls slightly cold from it and trapped the same. His entrance twitches with his anticipation. Elrond takes hold of his hips and pushes forward, so that Lindir crumples, wrapping tighter around Elrond’s body and gasping so wide that it comes out high-pitched and broken. 

It’s a delicious slide, warm and thick and steady, parting his walls so much better than his fingers did. He revels in it, tries to relax but wants to squeeze and suck, wants to take it all at once. He surrenders to his lord’s pace. He’s filled finally to the brim, as much as he can, though he squirms to try and take _more_. Elrond’s already balls-deep. He’s long and thick and everything Lindir’s ever wanted in every conceivable way. 

Lindir’s trembling already. He clutches to Elrond’s body, hands clawing at the armour for a better grip at odd angles. His face is tucked against Elrond’s hair, a knot in it against his cheek that he longs to unthread with his fingers—he’ll do it in the afterglow, in a soothing bath, before he rides Elrond’s lap again and begs to meld them into _one_. He moans pitifully, “ _Please_ ,” and Elrond listens. 

He pulls away in a smooth, deliberate stroke, then thrusts inside again, fierce and strong. It fills Lindir and hits just the right spot; Elrond’s had centuries to master this, and it shows. He falls into a melodic rhythm, at the perfect angle every time, sending a rush of pleasured spasms up Lindir’s spine. He sees stars behind his eyes whenever Elrond’s sheathed in him. He doesn’t have to do a thing, not this round, where he’s naked and held aloft, and Elrond is a mighty warrior. Elrond strokes his hips and pounds into him and steals all his air away.

Lindir tries to touch what he can. He memorizes the complex surface of the armour he fit Elrond into this morning, and he twines his fingers into Elrond’s ruined hair, and he kisses Elrond’s chin and cheek and tries to capture his lips, but can’t until Elrond follows. When Elrond kisses him, he’s in a bliss even the Valar couldn’t replicate. He rasps into Elrond’s mouth, “I love you so completely.”

“And I love you,” Elrond returns, voice steady for all the work of his hips. He melts Lindir away. He takes Lindir’s cheek in his rough glove and guides Lindir through a series of kisses that says all their words: an entire conversation, a song, of solely adoration.

When Elrond’s leather-calloused fingers wrap around Lindir’s cock, it’s more than he can take. He comes undone with a soundless cry, tears at the corners of his eyes. He spills himself all over Elrond’s hand and armour and clings so tight that he’s sure he’s pulling Elrond’s hair, but Elrond simply continues to take him, milking out every last spot of pleasure that Lindir’s frail body can handle. 

Even when Lindir’s finished, Elrond continues, while Lindir holds weakly to him, spent and idyllic. Lindir tries to squeeze himself, tries to pleasure his lord, and it seems to help, because Elrond follows shortly with a feral roar worthy of any battlefield. 

The rush of Elrond’s seed inside him is Lindir’s greatest joy. It hits him with a new wave of dizziness, and he clenches down as tight as he can to hold it in. Elrond allows a few more thrusts, then slows. Lindir doesn’t want to let go. 

He’s given a moment’s rest, but eventually, Elrond disentangles from Lindir’s body. Lindir is allowed to stumble back to his feet, though he’s too shaken to support himself, and Elrond has to catch him. Then Elrond sweeps him up easily, carrying him beneath his arms and back, and Lindir marvels anew in Elrond’s strength. He’s carried to the bed with a graceful ease. 

He’s gingerly sat down. The fabric of the blankets is soft enough to not overly distress his rear, though he can certainly feel the sting of it, and better still, the release dribbling out along his cheeks. He clamps his thighs together to slow that spillage. 

Standing beside the bed, Elrond pets one hand back through Lindir’s hair and sighs, “I hope I was not too vigorous with you.”

Lindir could laugh, but he still has no breath for it. He merely shakes his head and crawls forward enough to touch Elrond’s armour again, spreading his hands across it. He murmurs, “I apologize for requiring it of you so swiftly. I will help you out of your gear at once and bathe you properly.” Elrond lifts one brow and might protest, except by now he’s surely learned that Lindir wants no rest between; he wants nothing but to serve Lord Elrond. 

So Elrond simply nods and bends forward, lifting Lindir’s chin with one hand to connect their lips. The kiss is sweet, and Lindir couldn’t be happier.


End file.
